


And So They Heal

by JokerzPrincezz



Series: Of Broken Things and Their Golden Gleams [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bodily Fluids, Christmas with the Holmes', Declarations Of Love, Diana Rigg is Mummy, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Is Gay, FTM John Watson, Healing, Implied/Referenced Torture, John Watson knew, Loving Parents, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Rape Aftermath, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Strap-Ons, Sweet Sherlock, Top John Watson, Trans John Watson, Trans Male Character, and feelings, trigger - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 03:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerzPrincezz/pseuds/JokerzPrincezz
Summary: "Sherlock arrived home with more than physical scars. For all of that, though, John was ever grateful to have Sherlock back where he belonged. Baker Street felt like home again, even with all the hell they still had to walk through. At least now they’d walk those roads together. "Sherlock returns and now the long road is before them. Together they heal and readjust to life as living men.





	And So They Heal

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I am not trans, I do not claim to speak for trans people.  
> WARNING: there is minor discussion of sexual assault (a major theme in this series as you guys know), torture, and forced vomiting and loss of control in regards to bodily functions. It's a little icky, but it's part of Sherlock's torture.  
> John discusses a fear of being outed.  
> Loss of a loved one is touched on, underage sex between two consenting underage people is discussed (Sherlock and Victor).  
> Drunk driving deaths are minorly discussed.
> 
>  
> 
> A NOTE: WOW it took me literally an AGE to write this and get it to something I liked! I really didn't expect this story to get so involved or turn out how it did. I PROMISE that Sherlock and John are getting engaged next one! They're just taking their sweet time about it, and I can't rush them.

Sherlock arrived home with more than physical scars. For all of that, though, John was ever grateful to have Sherlock back where he belonged. Baker Street felt like home again, even with all the hell they still had to walk through. At least now they’d walk those roads together. John took comfort in that when his lover had a moment of openness, and the wounds he carried were revealed to still be bright with blood.

While Sherlock was still bed bound most things stayed constant. This was, mostly, because Sherlock was drugged and sedated through the worst of it. But during his first conscious, though not fully lucid, moment, he started sobbing when he looked around him. John was there, of course he was, he had been charged with caring for Sherlock. Mycroft had given him a number to an emergency service which would arrive within a few moments if need be, with new supplies or additional personnel. Other than that John, and John alone, was entrusted to pull Sherlock back from the brink of death he’d been hanging on during his time under his captors’ boot.

John had quickly raced to his side, shushing his lover, fretting over Sherlock's back, fearful some of the stitches had been pulled. But no, all the stitches were fine, Sherlock was in the same position he’d been in for the last 24 hours since he was brought home. He was just sobbing, like a scared child, whimpering and twisting in the sheet covering his legs and backside. The movement had to have been excruciating on his cracked ribs, even with the drug-induced haze he drifted in.

“What’s wrong, darling, talk to me?” John asked, taking care to keep his voice calm and low, the same voice he had used with soldiers waking from comas and nightmares after being pulled from the battlefield, breaking through their expectations of blood and bombs raining down upon them with a sense of calm and peace.

“It’s- it’s t-too o-open, John. John.” Sherlock gasped, trying and failing to sit up, wildly swinging his head around. John was confused, but cast his eyes around, looking for divine interpretation.

“Open.. open.” John murmured, trying to understand what his lover was blabbering about. As Sherlock started trying to weakly drag himself away from the open door and towards the side of the bed closest to the wall, John finally understood what his lover was trying to tell him.

“Oh, oh!” He said. He hurried to the other side of the bed. “Hey, hey it’s ok. Breath for me darling, I’ll fix it, ok? But I need you to stay calm for a second.”

“But they’re _coming_!” Sherlock gasped, making to grab Johns arm, “they’ll come John!”

“I’ll protect you,” John promised, running his hand through Sherlock's hair. It took a moment of Sherlock nervously casting his eyes about the room before he tentatively relaxed. John stayed still for a moment, standing over the bed between Sherlock and the door, stroking his lover’s hair before he slowly began to move.

Firstly, he upped Sherlock's sedative, once the detective was fully lax John moved the cot Mycroft’s men had left in the room to serve as his bed. When the cot was close enough John gently moved Sherlock onto it for a moment. It took some manpower and moving around of their bedroom furniture, but eventually the bed was flush against the wall, Sherlock would have a clear view of both window and door from the far side of the room. The hard part came in John having to bodily carry Sherlock back to the bed. The man was so drugged that he only roused to groan before slumping back into his lovers’ arms, making him dead weight in the soldier’s grasp.

John was sweating and three of Sherlock's stitches had popped, bleeding sluggishly down his back, but both those things were easily fixed. Sherlock's sudden fear of open spaces and having his back exposed would take far more work to fix. For now, though, John hoped Sherlock would rest easier. After redoing the stitches and a quick shower John moved the cot so it was flat against the bed, between Sherlock and the door. His lover woke once more a few hours later, looked blearily around, sighed in relief, and collapsed for another 10 hours.

The next day he woke to John changing his IV. He looked about him, still out of it and confused.

“Why’s the bed aga’nst the wall?” Sherlock asked. He sounded croaky and slurred, as if his mouth was filled with cotton. John rushed to help Sherlock slowly drink a cup of water. ( _Small sips darling, small_ )

“More room for the cot, you didn’t expect me to keep sleeping at the foot of the bed like a dog, did you?” John tried for a convincing smile. Sherlock looked at him suspiciously for a moment, before he mouthed “ _oh_ ” silently. His eyes softened, but he also looked bashful.

John knew he was lying about the cot ( _which was now in a rather inconvenient spot if truth be told_ ), Sherlock knew he was lying, John knew Sherlock knew he was lying, Sherlock knew John knew that he knew John was lying to him. Neither of them said anything about it.

* * *

 The second bump in the road to recovery came a week and a half later. Sherlock had finally had his catheter removed and was allowed to start on light solids. He moaned about his inability to drink a proper cup of tea and was ecstatic to finally have his first meal while sitting up, even if he was still confined to the bed. Everything was fine while he was fully awake, the problem came in that Sherlock had to eat something small every three hours, solids and heavier things allowed only twice a day.

Usually, Sherlock was still sleeping when his in between feedings came about. Typically, this hadn’t been an issue, he would just accept the straw to the nutrient-rich shake John presented him, slurp it down, then flop back down and go right back to sleep.

With the best of intentions, John made some broth once Sherlock was able to stop the shakes. He hadn’t thought to warn Sherlock, thinking it would only make a nice change to the watery faux vanilla flavored drink he’d had foisted upon him for nearly two weeks straight. John allowed it to cool before bringing it to Sherlock in a mug. Sherlock didn’t even really wake, he rarely did, just opened his mouth and accepted the straw John presented him. These times usually felt a bit like feeding a newborn kitten whose eyes were still closed.

But not today. No, today Sherlock gagged, his eyes flying open.

“No!” he cried, up on his knees in an instant, pushing himself against the wall, gagging and throwing up bile and the small sip of broth he’d taken. He looked wild, his eyes watering as he gagged, again and again, casting his eyes about the room.

John had been startled enough to drop the cup of broth; the yellow liquid spread over their white sheets. Sherlock was hyperventilating, still gagging and gasping for air.

“Sherlock?!” John reached forward, when his arm came too close Sherlock cried out, taking a weak swing in his direction. “Woah,” John said, pulling back, his hands up in an effort to appease his frantic lover.

“Sherlock, darling, you have to breathe. Everything is ok, you’re safe here. You’re home, at Baker Street, and I’m with you. Everything is alright.” John was speaking lowly, trying to ground and calm the younger man. John remembered Sherlock doing this for him at some point years ago, just after Moriarty and the warehouse.

It took another few moments but, eventually, Sherlock allowed John close enough to embrace his terrified lover. The gasps turned to hiccupping sobs, turned to deep breaths. Finally, after maybe half an hour, Sherlock pulled away. He looked at the wet sheets with a bizarre expression.

“I- I’m sorry.” He said finally. John shook his head, running his hands through Sherlock's hair, pulling the other man’s attention back to him.

“It’s ok, it’s all ok. Come on, let's get you cleaned up. Then I’ll change the sheets and you can go back to bed.” Sherlock quickly shook his head.

“N-no. No, can I go to the couch?” he looked disturbed, his eyes edging away from the mess his panic had caused. John thought for a moment, most of the smaller cuts would be fine, but he worried about the pain of Sherlock's ribs and the tugging on the deeper stitches the movement might cause. His inner doctor berated his heart for even considering moving such a delicate patient. But then…

“John? Please?” Sherlock whispered, grasping his lover’s jumper tightly. John gave him a crooked smile and nodded.

“Just for a bit, you really need to be laid out, Sherl.”

“Thank you” Sherlock sighed.

John helped his lover into the bathroom and washed his curls and body. After, John helped Sherlock into comfortable lounge clothes, foregoing a vest and instead allowing him to don his feather-light dressing gown. The journey to the couch was slow, but eventually, Sherlock was laid out on his side. Sherlock sighed in contentment, snuggling into the union jack pillow under his head. John left him for only a moment in order to remove the sheets and pat down the mattress with a towel. Once the bed was as clean as he could get it, he threw open the window, hoping to both expedite the mattresses drying time and air out the smell of broth. He changed his clothes quickly as his own were soaked and smelt strongly of the offending broth.

John sighed as he fell into his armchair. Sherlock was staring at him contemplatively.

“I’m sorry.” He said again.

“It’s ok Sherlock, seriously. But… do you want to talk about it?” John asked gently. Sherlock worried his lip for a moment before looking to his own chair.

“Can I sit up and tell you?” John paused, but, hell, they were following through with bad ideas anyway. Why not just let the man go bloody cliff diving while they were at it? John sighed through his nose and nodded.

“You _will_ tell me if it hurts, got it?”

“Pain is relative.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John warned. Sherlock bit his lip again but finally sighed and nodded.

He hissed as John lowered him into the seat, no surprise there. Nearly every inch of the younger man was covered in bruises and lacerations, not to mention the internal injuries and broken bones, plus the injuries to his _private_ areas. John sat across from him and instantly saw why Sherlock wanted to be sitting up for this. Sitting face to face, they were equals again. Not patient and doctor, not broken lover and concerned partner. Friend to friend, peer to peer. Sherlock drummed his fingers along the arms of his chair for a moment before speaking.

“You saw the tox screen?” John nodded, “then you… you know I was poisoned.”

“Often, from the look of it, yes.” Sherlock nodded his agreement.

“They would, ah… They would starve me for many days. Long enough that I’d get… desperate. They probably could have put a live rat in front of me and I’d have eaten it once I got to that level. The poisoning was inconsistent, it wasn’t each time I ate, and they followed no discernible pattern. Most times they’d just give me the cold broth and I’d be fine. I’d eat it and be left alone. Sometimes though, when I was being… _difficult_ ,” Sherlock smirked with grim pride before it faded, his brow furrowing, “they would poison my food. I wasn’t sure what it was, and I haven’t checked the paperwork but, it um…” Sherlock blushed suddenly, looking away from John. “It- it had some nasty effects. Hallucinations, heart palpitations, anxiety, but not least of these was…. Was the fact it acted as a laxative and it would make me vomit. They… they wouldn’t let me use-” Sherlock cleared his throat and motioned, “you know, the um, the loo.”

Sherlock choked up, looking away in shame. His face was twisted in grim fury and disgust. John didn’t speak, if Sherlock was ready to talk John wouldn’t question that, even if every molecule of his being wanted to wrap Sherlock up and hide him from the world. Wanted desperately to pull these memories from Sherlock's glorious mind and burn them to ash.

 After a moment Sherlock sniffed and wiped his eyes with shaking hands. “They put me in a room. It was tiny, probably a repurposed shower stall of some kind. There were these horribly bright lights, and the walls were so white it was blinding. They’d leave me there, nude, exposed and humiliated until I, ah… lost control of my facilities. Then, when it was done, they would turn on freezing cold water, it came down so hard I didn’t wonder if they were using a fire hose. It felt like thousands of needles stabbing me when I was already at my lowest. It… it was _horrible_. The constant physical stimulation, the unending pain and humiliation, god, I couldn’t shut myself off, I couldn’t even go into my own mind. And now I can’t delete it. I keep trying and it just won’t…” Sherlock looked lost for a moment, frustrated with his inability to control his own mind.

“It was… God John, who even _thinks_ of something like that? Whose mind works so?!” Sherlock flailed his right arm to convey his disbelief and disgust, he was also crying now. His lips wobbled and he began hunching in on himself in shame.

John stood slowly, before lowering himself on the floor next to his lover. Silently he laid his head on Sherlock's thigh and took one long pale hand into his own. Eventually, Sherlock's crying slowed to sniffled and hiccups. They sat a while longer before John eventually stood and grabbed Sherlock a box of tissues before he spoke.

“Ok, no more broth?” Miraculously, Sherlock let out a hysterical giggle as he dried his eyes and blew his nose.

“No more _cold_ broth.” He corrected as John helped lift him to his feet.

“We can do that” John promised. He smiled gently at his lover, Sherlock must have seen something in his face because he began to blink quickly and nodded.

* * *

 From then on John dragged Sherlock down the stairs at mealtimes and carefully propped him up at the table. It was, admittedly, a pain, and he had to mostly carry Sherlock back once the meal was over as fatigue would overcome his lover. But John was grateful for it and Sherlock ate better being at the kitchen table and with John.

When Mrs. Hudson came home from her sisters she sobbed over her boys, blathering on about nothing, too choked up to speak. John had teared up a little in joy as well, hell, even _Sherlock's_ eyes seemed wet when Mrs. Hudson gently embraced him, mindful of his stitches.

After Mrs. Hudson, people began flooding in. Mycroft came by at least once every other day to check on Sherlock after he was well enough to walk about the flat without help, his husband taking his place on Mycroft’s busier days. Some days Mr. Holmes- Lestrade and Mr. Lestrade-Holmes would arrive as one with gifts of food. Apparently, Greg was quite the cook. Mrs. Holmes and Mr. Holmes had called about two weeks on and let the couple know they’d be coming to visit the next weekend ( _John scrambled to tidy up his old room and hide most of Sherlock's Christmas gift_ ) and Molly Hooper had, on one occasion, burst into the flat sobbing.

But she hadn’t embraced Sherlock like John expected, instead, she embraced _John_ , saying how sorry she was that she hid everything from him. John felt a bit of shock that sweet, lovesick, Molly could have hidden such a large secret from him day after day for nearly two years. But she wasn’t the last.

John got more apologies than Sherlock from the people in their lives, Molly, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Mycroft, Sherlock himself, all these people apologized to him profusely. Mycroft and Sherlock apologized for not being able to give him a clearer code, while Sherlock praised him for figuring out said code on his own. It was terrifyingly easy to forgive all these people. How could he be angry when Sherlock was home?

The visit from Mr. and Mrs. Holmes was pleasant. They took Johns old room and were wonderful company. Mr. Holmes was none too afraid to tell John tales of a young, brilliant, and churlish Sherlock. Sherlock blushed madly the whole time and nearly hid behind his teacup while his mother just watched on with a benevolent smile.

Before leaving, Mrs. Holmes had pulled John aside and asked him if they would be coming home for Christmas in three months’ time. John instantly agreed and Mrs. Holmes leaned into his ear, feigning an embrace.

“There’s one more person whose blessing you might want.” She whispered before releasing him and smiling, patting his cheek with a wrinkled hand. John smiled in confusion but confirmed once more they would visit the Holmes cottage come Christmas.

Sherlock was _not_ impressed by this.

* * *

 By the end of the second week, John had read what felt like every book in the flat to his temporarily disabled lover, after a month his lover truly had re-devoured every book available and had started learning Lithuanian for some reason. John watched Sherlock carefully, waiting for the moment the man would snap. Between the boredom of being stuck in the house, the constant coming and goings of the select few who now knew of his return, and John fluttering over him like a mother hen ( _not even sleeping properly in their bed!_ ), Sherlock was _sure_ to crack.

* * *

 Finally it happened, John came home from the market ( _“I’ll be fine for an hour, honestly, I won’t pull the stitches and it’s not like I can go running about with a damned cast on my leg”_ ) and his lover was on his knees in the kitchen, rooting through their bottom cupboards.

John sighed in exasperation, “Sherlock.” He warned gently. Sherlock popped his head over the kitchen counter and gave John an innocent look.

“Ah, John! You’re home, fifteen minutes earlier than I anticipated. And… As you can see, I’ve, ah… been trying to find the teapot!” Sherlock gave him a sweet smile and, highly unimpressed, John pointed the top of the counter, literally right above Sherlock's head. Their teapot sat on the section of the counter with all their teas and the sugar. The exact same place it had been for the nearly four years they lived in Baker Street.

“Oh, yes, there it is. Silly me” Sherlock gave a nervous chuckle but didn’t try to stand on his own.

“Your chemistry set is upstairs in my old room. I _knew_ you’d do this.” Sherlock's face fell into one of annoyance.

“Why is it upstairs?” he asked indignantly.

“Well, considering I thought you _dead_.” John snarked ( _hoping Sherlock wouldn’t question him, because that would ruin his whole Christmas gift and he only had another month and a half to get everything ready_ ). Sherlock blushed and crossed his arms, sitting back on his thighs.

“Well that’s stupid,” he grumbled. There was silence in the kitchen for a long moment.

“You can’t get up on your own, can you?” John said in exasperation. Sherlock glowered at him.

“I _can_!.... just not without popping a stitch.”

“Sherlock” John groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort not to roll his eyes.

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he sighed and lifted his arms. “Oh very well, help me up.” John smiled a small smile and gingerly helped his lover to his feet. The stitch didn’t pop though it had begun tearing at the skin it was attached to.

“You got lucky,” John tutted as he allowed his lover to redon his dressing gown and began puttering around the kitchen preparing a pot of herbal tea (“That’s barely tea! It’s just… Plant water!” _Sherlock had groaned when John told him it was all he was getting until he was at least a stone heavier_ ).

“John I’m so _bored_ , I’m rotting away here,” Sherlock whined, predictably. John looked at his lover out of the corner of his eye and sighed.

“You could have just _told_ me you felt well enough to stay out of bed. I can help you set up a smaller version of your chemistry set down here, gather new supplies and start some of your _safer_ experiments. Or I could get a box of cold cases from Greg or get you new books. I saw a new one from that doctor you like in the window of the bookstore the other day.”

“The one about the prospects of the effects of the reintroduction of cloned and previously extinct native flora and fauna on local habitats?” Sherlock asked excitedly. John only understood about three words his lover had said but nodded anyway. He came back to the table with both he and Sherlock's mugs and began preparing the correct amount of sugar and cream for their un-caffeinated “ _plant water_ ” tea.

Sherlock seriously considered the mugs for a moment before finally deciding “Will you ask Gavin to come over and bring a few boxes of old cold cases? There’s only so much I can do with the whole world still assuming I’m dead. Should be a bit of a challenge to solve the cases with only the information gathered by the incompetent.” Sherlock decided.

“Greg, darling” John corrected automatically, before he froze up for a moment, something new just occurring to him. He slowly set down the cream and looked into the shallow milky depths of Sherlock's mug of tea.

“Oh hell,” he quietly cursed, “we’ll have to make a statement soon. Once you’re well enough to work, we can’t just show back up on crime scenes. Anderson alone would have a right fit.”

“Anderson?” Sherlock asked in bewilderment. “Who the hell cares about _Anderson_?”

“A lot of people,” John admitted, cringing at the reaction of his lover, “You became… something of an international sensation after you jumped. Anderson became convinced you’d faked your death. He started a “ _Where in the World is Sherlock Holmes?_ ” type blog. It’s not as successful as ours-“

“And whose fault is that?” Sherlock grumbled in a deadpanned voice. John flushed.

“You don’t get to complain about it. I thought you were dead and no one would bloody well let me be. I couldn’t even go to the damned market without being attacked by fans and media personnel-“

“I know love,” Sherlock said, his voice gentling, “I’m not complaining, I don’t regret anything you write. Well… not anymore.” John smiled at his lover who was clearly uncomfortable with himself being so humanized.

“Tell you what,” John said as the teapot started singing, “I’ll delete it once you make your big reveal and replace it with one that says, “ _he’s alive, go fuck yourself, you cock's_ ” how’s that?” Sherlock giggled and soon John joined him, both of them having a laughing fit and acting like children at their kitchen counter. It felt almost like normality had returned to Baker Street for a moment.

* * *

 

There were only two out of the twenty-five cases Lestrade brought Sherlock that he was unable to solve without further evidence. By the time he had worked through all the cases another two weeks had passed. Sherlock was well enough to get around the house, set up a few smaller experiments, and shower alone.

“John,” he said very suddenly as John returned from the market on a nondescript Tuesday evening.

“Yea, love?” John said distractedly, setting the bags around the experiments on their kitchen table. That simple act almost made him tear up, he didn’t realize how much he _needed_ this kind of controlled chaos created by Sherlock until he’d had to go without it.

“I think I’m ready to come back to life.” Sherlock's hand was shaking minutely, but his face was determined.

“Oh,” John said, staring at Sherlock for a moment before abandoning the bags and coming to sit in his armchair across from his lover. Sherlock bit his lips for a moment.

“I… I want you to write a post. Whoever reaches out first gets an interview. One post, one interview, that’s it.”

“An interview?” John asked in surprise. Sherlock Holmes didn’t _do_ interviews, never. But now his face set in stone and he nodded resolutely. John slowly heaved a sigh, running his hands over his face.

“Ok…. Ok, any stipulations?” He asked. Sherlock opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, thought better of it, then closed his mouth and shook his head.

“I trust you.” The detective said. Johns' face softened at the blatant show of confidence.

“Ok, darling. But we do need to talk about work if this is the case.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Sherlock huffed, averting his eyes. John gave him a stern look.

“You know very well. Your legs aren’t quite strong enough yet, so if you want to get back to it, no leg work cases. I… I also think…” John paused, not sure how Sherlock would react, he swallowed and summoned some courage. “I also think you ought to start seeing a therapist. We can’t go out on a case and….” John trailed off.

“Have someone come up behind me and trigger a flashback. Yes, I agree.” Sherlock was worrying his lip but not meeting Johns' eye. He seemed nervous. This conversation was clearly taking a toll on him. Sherlock had begun to shift and shake slightly. “I’ve um, I’ve actually been thinking about your therapist?” Sherlock shrugged.

“Err, maybe?” John thought, trying to remember the last time he’d actually seen Ella.

It had to have been at least a good six months, since before Moran had died in his arms. He hadn’t had the strength or will to explain to her why he was so broken up, how could he explain his complicated relationship with Moran? Not even a relationship, a _connection_. How could he explain the deep ache he’d felt when Moran had taken up the drink and chosen death? How could he explain to anyone ( _save perhaps Sherlock_ ) that he had envied his dying rapist, but more than that, he had felt a piece of him died with Moran that day. Perhaps the piece that had still foolishly thought he could ever live a full life without Sherlock Holmes at his side.

“I’m not sure if it’s allowed, truthfully, there may be a conflict of interest considering our relationship, I dunno. Besides, you may want to ask your brother for a more confidential one. We do have to work through things far more delicate than the usual person.” Sherlock furrowed his brow in consideration.

“Yes, yes you’re right. But if I’m doing that, shouldn’t you?” Sherlock finally asked. John gave a nod of consent. He wasn’t particularly attached to Ella, and really, did he actually need one at all? ( _The answer was yes, but John was stubborn at the best of times. Sherlock would later convince him to start seeing a therapist regularly, their meetings with the same woman on alternating Wednesday mornings._ )

“Alright. Well, I guess we’ve got a plan. Shall I, ah, write it up today?” John asked, standing and crossing to crouch down in front of his lover. Sherlock smiled, his shakes subsiding as he reached down and cradled Johns face in his hands.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispered.

* * *

 

  **The Case of The Lost Detective**

 

_It’s been a little over two years since my last post. And now I return with one far simpler and far more dramatic than any other._

_About two months ago I returned from work to uninvited visitors in my home. I can’t tell you how many, exactly, but I can tell you that upon seeing the elder Holmes brother sitting in my living room, I realized instantly what was happening._

_You see, shortly before everything went to hell in a bloody handbasket, Sherlock said something out of the ordinary to me. As we left home early one morning, he looked to me in all seriousness and said I was “_ the sanest person he knew _”._

_Three days later I watched him drop._

_Sometime after, Sherlock's elder brother, Mycroft, came to my home and scolded me for falling apart. At that point, I was, admittedly, not doing well. The loss of Sherlock had shaken me badly, I saw nothing but the days I suffered before his appearance in my life stretched out before me. Just misery and loneliness, an utter, bone-deep boredom that only this strange man with his outlandish cases and terrible people skills had alleviated. It was, I suppose, fair enough that a brother should be concerned for the fate of his siblings’ partner._

_While Mycroft was here, though, he said something that caught my attention. It wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary. To anyone else, it would have just sounded like a grieving brother trying to comfort his siblings’ partner. But what caught my attention was that Mycroft used neither past nor present tense when speaking of his deceased brother. Now, either of these would have seemed normal. People who are still lingering in denial often speak of those they’ve lost in present tense, those who are beginning to work through the pain and have accepted the inevitable will typically use past tense._

_For Mycroft to use neither seemed bizarre. I then asked him, in a fit of inspiration, if, perhaps, I was insane. If I had lost my sanity at his brothers’ hands, for, truthfully, it felt that way. It felt like anything human inside me was still standing on that sidewalk with the shell that was once Sherlock Holmes. At my word choice, he seemed to relax, the tiniest bit, and told me I was “_ the sanest person _” he knew. Echoing Sherlock's own words relayed to me on our doorstep as we left the house prepared to face our most dangerous enemy, James Moriarty._

_From then on, I would often call Mycroft, or meet him for lunch, or even invite him over for tea. Each time I asked him if I was insane. It felt, after the first few times, as if we had some strange code. If I was the “_ sanest person _” he knew, Sherlock was well. If I was a bit mad, Sherlock was in danger. If I was as sane as Mycroft, he had lost contact with his brother._ _None of this was a conscious thought, of course. It felt more like I was grasping at straws made of smoke and denial. I dreaded the day he told me I had lost my mind, though I didn’t really know why._

_On that day two months ago I arrived home, part of me still holding out hope I had some strange code with Sherlock's older brother. That part of me, that unshakable faith Sherlock had more than earned, was rewarded._

_Sherlock lay in bed, he was hurt, badly. Doctors raced about, desperately trying to piece him back together, but there he was. He was gaunt, he was bleeding, his hair so matted and greasy it lay in knots on the pillow, he was weak and tired. But alive. So gloriously, wonderfully alive._

_We’ve stayed holed up in our flat the last few weeks, working as a team to help Sherlock heal. Mrs. Hudson has been invaluable, checking in and staying with Sherlock when shopping and laundry need to get done. His brother has more than played his part as well, providing Sherlock with the best and most discreet care he can find, generally helping to piece his brother's tattered body back to its former glory._

_After these long six weeks the worst of Sherlock's lacerations have closed, he’s gained at least a stone of desperately needed weight, he has the strength to move about the flat and make his own tea and do experiments all over the kitchen table again (_ something I truly thought I wouldn’t miss, but apparently I’m not totally adverse to eyeballs in my tea if the right person _“accidentally”_ puts it there. Right prick, he’s secretly a prankster at heart, more than pleased to scare me half to death and test my stomachs strength _). But with this physical healing comes the healing of his mind. He’s, predictably, become terribly bored._

_Today after I came home from the market, we had a long conversation. In the end, he asked me to write a post proclaiming his continued existence. As per his wishes, the first person or company to reach out will get the one, and_ only _, interview. Whether that’s a grade school reporter or a major news corporation, he doesn’t care. He’s decided to put no stipulations on this interview, though do try to remember Sherlock hates repetition and I’ve no guarantee he won’t call you a moron and leave if you bore him._

_After word of Sherlock's return has spread, we’ll begin taking small cases that don’t require any leg work. It’ll be some months before he’ll be back up to par and ready to chase criminals through London’s back streets, but until then he’s desperate for mental stimulation. Sherlock wasn’t made for a life of leisure or monotony; he needs to always be expanding and exercising his mental capabilities. He’s rotting away, bored to tears in our flat knowing he has no work on the horizons. (_ And nothing to do but see how far up the wall he can drive me _)._

_So, after the interview has been conducted, we will begin taking cases again. However, if the case is too heavy, requires travel, or is generally a threat to Sherlock's healing it will be turned down or left till a later date. We are very sorry about this, but, as his friend, and doctor more often than not, I insist his wellbeing, both physical and mental, must come first._

_With regard,_

_Dr. John Watson_

* * *

 “What do you think?” John asked, looking to where Sherlock was reading over his shoulder. Sherlock nodded after finishing reading it through.

“Adequate. Now post it. For god sake John, I’m rotting away here.” John just rolled his eyes fondly and did as his lover asked.

* * *

 The next day they had over seven hundred thousand hits on the post and more than four hundred requests for interviews. Sherlock groaned in annoyance when he saw the first request was from a major talk shows intern. Apparently, she was a fan and sent the email before even checking with her bosses. When John emailed her back, she said that the network had already offered her a high paying position if she managed to book the interview. _Lucky lass_ , John thought as he began to dial the girl’s number.

* * *

 Less than a week later they met the girl, Avery, at a sound stage. The journey there had been tedious, though Sherlock kept his face covered and his coat collar up, it wasn’t hard to recognize him. Some people would stop and point in the street, one poor woman screamed in fright and stumbled into her companion upon seeing the dead detective in a cab stopped at a red light. Sherlock automatically sunk lower in his seat, muttering about how annoying this was all shaping up to be.

Avery was a slight thing, shorter than John even in her high, red bottom stilettos, with sandy blond hair. She smiled broadly though John could see the way she gapped at Sherlock with barely concealed admiration when she thought the genius wasn’t looking.

“You got the promotion I see.” Sherlock groused. Avery gasped; her eyes starry.

“Oh, that’s amazing” she sounded starstruck. John instinctively moved a little closer, a bit jealous. She _was_ rather lovely with wide brown eyes and the sweetest freckles. He’d surely have flirted with her had he been single.

“Uh, right. So where do you need him? I’ll help get him settled.”

“Oh!” Avery said, her face turning down a little. “Oh. No sir, they want you there too.”

“What?” John half laughed. “Why on earth would they?” He looked to Sherlock to back him up. But Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“Why _wouldn’t_ they?” the younger man countered. John opened his mouth to argue but Avery cut in.

“They’ve got questions for you, sir,” she said, “about, your um…. _Relationship_.” She stressed the last word meaningfully, before seeming to lose her nerve and scurrying off. John gapped as she fled.

“Did she just…?” he trailed off. Sherlock shifted and made a face.

“Your last posts have been rather….” He flicked a hand through the air.

“Shit,” John muttered. Sherlock shifted again, clearly uncomfortable.

“ _I’m sorry love_ -“

“ _You don’t have to_ -“ John and Sherlock spoke as one. John cocked his head.

“What?” he asked.

“You don’t, um, I’m sure you’re not keen for this kind of information to…. I mean if you want to deny it I won’t be-“ Sherlock stuttered, looking anywhere but John. His face was drawn in a way that meant he would, in fact, be hurt if John denied the accusations.

“Wait, wait, you... you _want_ people to know?” John asked, astonished. Sherlock looked affronted.

“Of course, I do.” He sounded miffed, “I love you. Why would I want to hide that?”

“Well, I dunno!” a thousand things ran through Johns' mind, and across every reason, his scars to his anger issues, the word “ _unworthy_ ” was splashed in violent red paint made of self-doubt and self-degradation. Sherlock cast his eyes about for a moment, then dragged John into a corner.

“Don’t you _dare_ , John Watson” he hissed quietly, suddenly fierce, “don’t you dare, for a moment think yourself below me. You are the best man I’ve ever met, you saved my life, you believed in me, you forgave me after I put you through the unthinkable. If either of us doesn’t deserve the other, it is I who is unworthy of you.”

“But I’m just-“ John cut himself off, hopelessly motioning to himself.

“You’re wonderfully imperfect and ridiculously stupid. I had thought you would be unwilling to reveal our relationship. That’s the only reason, and I mean the _only_ , that I never questioned why you left that out of your blog. I had thought you would be… embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” John gapped, “God Sherl, of _you_? Never, not in a million years. You’re brilliant, you know that. You know how I feel about you.”

“And yet you fear this?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head in confusion. John flushed and flashed an eye around them. Some people who had been watching them scattered under his gaze. John shuffled foot to foot.

Sherlock was right, of course he was. John was terrified. This kind of reveal, this kind of thing… It would open them up. People would go digging in his past, there was a high chance of him being outed as a trans man, there was every possibility of people taking their homophobic hate out on them. What if this put Sherlock in danger? What if he ruined Sherlock's reputation even more? What would the world think of them if people knew….

“They might find out what I am,” John whispered, not meeting his lovers’ eyes. Sherlock shuffled a touch closer, not indecent or suggestive. Just two friends whispering in a corner. Is that _really_ all John wanted people to see?

“Then the world will know I belong to the bravest, strongest man in the whole of Britain.” Sherlock murmured quietly. They stared at each other, John in something like desperate fear.

“They might try to hurt us.” He fought weakly, images of angry fists and angrier voices falling down upon the ears of a younger man. A younger man with the wrong body, a younger man who was isolated by the secret he held close to his hateful chest.

“Let them,” Sherlock argued. John swallowed thickly, blinking fiercely.

“Why would you even want that? Why would _want_ them to pry into our lives like that?”

“Because if the world should hear of our love, let it be from our own lips. Let them try to tear us apart. If Moriarty couldn’t shake your faith in me or put a splinter between us, what on earth makes you think some small-minded louts will?”

We’ve walked through hell John. They’re but gnats in the periphery. I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to keep you tucked under a bushel. I want you to shine as bright for the world as you do for me.” Hesitantly Sherlock grasped his hand, looking to him desperately. John found his mouth dry.

This was everything he feared yet hoped for. For Sherlock to claim him proudly upon a pedestal, for the world to stop mattering, for him to have just a _fraction_ of the self-confidence his lover possessed. And really, he tried to argue with himself, clinging tightly to Sherlock's hand. What would change? People already assumed. The people in their lives that mattered already knew. What would _actually_ change if they stopped denying it?

“You’ve been holding onto this for a while, haven’t you?” John tried with a half laugh, scrubbing roughly at his eyes. Sherlock barked out a laugh.

“Only two years, five months and three weeks.”

“That’s the day you fell?” John asked, bewildered. Sherlock nodded solemnly.

“While I was falling, I wondered why I hadn’t let the world know how wonderful you truly are.” Sherlock squeezed his hand tightly and John swallowed thickly, clearing his throat.

“Ok.” He breathed after a moment. “ok”

* * *

The interview took a steep dive downhill after the interviewer turned to John and asked her first, and probably only, planned question for him. If the implications in his last two posts were as… _amorous_ as some were speculating? At Johns simple answer of “ _yes_ ,” the hosts gaze had gone wide. Dear God, he could almost see the dollar signs in her eyes. Every question after was about them, their relationship, how long, when did they know? Was John gay? What about Sherlock? How serious was it? A few unseemly questions both men had flat out refused to answer ( _excuse you? That is certainly no one’s business but ours_ )

Sherlock weakly tried to get the interview back on track by making a comment about how guilty he had felt jumping off the roof. The woman didn’t take the bait though and instead dived right into berating John about any physical relationships he engaged in during Sherlock's absence. ( _bloody hell,_ none _. Didn’t he say in the post he still had an inkling of an idea that Sherlock may be alive? Of course, he didn’t seek anyone else out!_ )

The whole thing was torturous, on the cab ride home they were silent for a long few minutes before Sherlock spoke up.

“Well, that was just horrid.”

“Yep.” John agreed briskly. They looked at each other after a moment and burst into giggles.

“Christ,” John giggled, leaning into Sherlock, “we should have just bloody _posted_ it.”

“A new blog topic for you.” Sherlock choked out between laughter, “ _John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, yes, it’s proportionate, piss off_ ”. John burst into a full-bodied chuckle, trying to quiet himself as their cabbie shot them a look.

“The marriage announcement will be much quieter,” John promised; gripping Sherlock's hand tightly. Sherlock smiled a soft smile, the wrinkles around his eyes beginning to peek out. John decided he’d made it his mission to ensure all the wrinkles Sherlock died with were born of laughter and bright days. 

* * *

 After that everything faded to a new normal. The next few weeks passed in a quiet haze of simple cases usually solved from the comfort of their armchairs. Most of the clients didn’t even mention the headline that had subsequently been splashed all over Britain.

“ _Detective and Doctor, the True Story of Britain’s Secret Love Birds!_ ”

Some of the clients would hesitantly stumble through a congratulations before blushing and scurrying out of the flat. No one even seemed to go digging in Johns' past. But John had a feeling that was to do with Mycroft.

* * *

 He had come over just after the interview, meeting John for tea at Speedy’s, as they usually did on Wednesdays. (“Why on earth would you willingly have tea with _that_?” _Sherlock asked, screwing up his nose. John had sighed and rolled his eyes, just shaking his head as he made his way downstairs. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why. He and Mycroft hardly ever spoke, just sat in their usual spot with their usual tea and quietly sipped. When Sherlock had been gone the session would conclude with the usual question of insanity. Now that Sherlock was back these times seemed to just be Mycroft checking on his bothers healing process_ ). While sitting at their usual spot Mycroft had removed a brown leather notebook from his breast pocket and slid it to John along with a pen.

“If you would like-“ he began hesitantly, “You might add your birth name and any doctors you’ve seen or currently see along with any others who may have been privy to your past… _Identity_.” John had taken the notebook suspiciously, but still trustingly.

“Why?” he asked.

Mycroft had flushed and shrugged. “It might, or rather I could perhaps… _help_. To… keep anyone quiet. If you wish.” The elder Holmes had never spoken so clumsily in Johns presence. John had thought for a moment and internally shrugged, taking up the pen. He had jotted down the names of all the doctors he could remember and any untrustworthy people from his hometown who may have discovered his new identity. He had carefully labeled each list of names ( _Doctors, ex-partners, ex-schoolmates_ ) before sliding the closed notebook to Mycroft.

As Mycroft laid his hand over the notebook to take it back, John kept a grip on the edge of it until Mycroft looked up at him.

“Thank you.” John had said sincerely. Mycroft just nodded sharply and tucked the notebook away. (“I suppose he’s not always horrid,” _Sherlock had muttered after John mentioned it in passing_ )

It did, occasionally, John thought, hope to have the British government on one’s side. He was grateful to Mycroft for disallowing anyone to take the revelations of his identity from his own hands. If, one day, he decided to reveal his gender identity to anyone, or everyone, it would be by his own mouth with Sherlock at his side.

* * *

 

Some weeks later they packed their bags for the Christmas visit John had promised Mrs. Holmes. Sherlock had complained at first but when he realized they were meant to visit not his grandfathers Holmes mansion, but rather the cottage he had grown up in, he quieted down. As the time came closer for them to depart Sherlock became twitchy, nervous.  It wasn’t until they were in the car, nearly there, that John realized what was wrong with his lover.

The main road had been flooded by recent rains and they were informed the would be taking a detour down a side street called “ _Cunningham_ ”. Sherlock had gone rigid next to him in the car.

“What about Harrington?” Sherlock had asked, a hard note of desperation in his voice. The driver, hired by Mycroft at their mother’s insistence, gave him an annoyed look in the rearview mirror. John couldn’t even fault him, it _was_ Christmas Eve, after all, he probably wanted to be home with his own family.

“Sorry Mr. Holmes, but that would add another half hour sir. Not to mention it’s just as likely flooded. We’ll be takin’ Cunningham.”

Sherlock's jaw had gone tight and he sat back, fiddling with his phone nervously.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock said stiffly. He didn’t speak again. Fifteen minutes later John realized what was wrong when then entered a two-lane road and Sherlock grasped his hand, squeezing tightly.

“Oh,” John breathed, “oh love.” He looked at Sherlock with a heartbroken expression.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock hissed again, but he was still squeezing Johns hand. A moment later, Sherlock tugged on him.

“There.” He said in a croaky voice, pointing out his window. There was a ditch beside the road. A tree had been planted, against it was a cross. John didn’t get a good look at anything, but the name “ _Victor_ ” was painted on the white cross in bright, rainbow lettering. “His mum planted that tree after… after he was buried.” Sherlock explained quietly.

John held his lovers’ hand tightly as they passed the ditch where Sherlock's life had fallen apart.

The worst part of all of it, John thought, was that they arrived at Sherlock's childhood home less than ten minutes later.

_Ten minutes._

Less than _ten minutes_ from home, Victor Trevor had died because of someone else’s carelessness.

When they arrived at the cottage and John knocked on the door, Mrs. Holmes answered cheerfully.

“My boys!- oh, oh dear,” she tutted when she caught sight of her son. She gently shuffled John out of the way and approached, taking Sherlock's face into her hands.

“Oh dear, was the main road flooded?” she tsked. Sherlock avoided her eyes and shrugged.

“It’s fine,” he murmured in a voice that wouldn’t have even fooled John, let alone his genius mother.

“I’m sorry darling, the forecast didn’t call for rain or else I’d have-“

“It’s fine, Mummy, I promise.” He gave her a sad smile, a little watery, and embraced her tightly. “Besides, it’s good to be home.” He smiled tightly and let his mother take his arm, escorting her inside.

* * *

 Supper was lovely, and homemade this time, no butlers in sight.

“It’s just us for now, I’m afraid. Gregory got his son for the holiday; they’ve decided to stay home. Myc wanted to take the boy to a play.” Mr. Holmes explained as he helped his wife serve Christmas Eve dinner.

The meal was wonderful, and John was reminded of his Nan, a portly woman with kind blue eyes who would invade their home every Christmas and Easter. That was the only time he remembered his father being sober.

After dinner, Mr. Holmes and his son made their way ( _slowly, since Sherlock was still wrapped in a cast_ ) to Mr. Holmes’ home office. John stayed behind in the kitchen, more than happy to help Mrs. Holmes do the dishes and box up Christmas eve leftovers. Mrs. Holmes cast a plotting look to the home office, which was closed, before dragging John to the back door.

“Here, darling,” she hissed, handing him the keys to the Holmes car, a plate of Christmas cookies, and a slip of paper with an address on it. “Hurry now, tell her who you are and that I sent you. Tell Edna I sent my best, oh and don’t give the bottom cookies to Vince, they’ve got cinnamon, I know how he hates that. Now go, off with you,” she shooed off a very bewildered John, shutting the door in his face before he could ask what on earth was going on.

John, accustom to confusing Holmes behavior and strange orders, finally shrugged and got in the car, putting the address into the GPS.

Fifteen minutes later he pulled up to a cottage very similar to the Holmes’ except there seemed to be a bizarre amount of orange everywhere. Orange rusting metal flowers in the deadened garden, orange mailbox, orange welcome mat. As John knocked on the ( _orange_ ) door his eyes drifted to the welcome mat at his feet. His eyes widened in shock as he read it.

“ _Welcome to the Trevor’s!_ ” it proclaimed. John was tempted to drop the plate of cookies and make a run for it ( _why in god’s name would Mrs. Holmes send him to the home of Sherlock's dead lover?!_ ) but before he could, the door was opened by an aging black woman with natural greying hair, coiffed into a pile upon her head, and large glasses that where perfectly round.

She gasped when she looked at him, “My goodness!” she exclaimed, “oh, Dr. Watson, I was wondering when I’d get to meet you, come in, come in!” she ushered him into the house. Hesitantly he followed her into the sitting room. Along the way, he looked around him. The home was filled with what appeared to be African trinkets, from masks to wooden elephants, and paintings filled with vibrant warm colors and a distinctive African flair. The whole affair was tasteful and lively, just like the lady of the house, who John now realized was the “Edna” Mrs. Holmes had spoken of.

“Sit darling, sit,” Edna said, motioning to the couch in the sitting room. The elderly woman was all in a tizzy, flustered and bustling about, muttering about a cup of tea and “ _do you take sugar dear? No? Cream? No, nothing? Alright, darling, you wait just a moment._ ”

Awkwardly John placed the plate of cookies on the table and stood to look about the room as he listened to Mrs. Trevor puttering in the side kitchen. Knick-knacks and paintings covered nearly every surface, but there, along the fireplace… Johns' breath caught. The mantel was set in chronological order. It started with a photo of a young black couple at their wedding, presumably Mr. and Mrs. Trevor, then both of them smiling and holding a sleeping bundled baby, Victor. A few snapshots showed a grinning toddler, then a beaming little boy. About the time the boy appeared to be six or seven Sherlock appeared in the pictures. Laughing at birthday parties, covered in paint, decked out in hand knit Christmas jumpers ( _Victor's was orange_ ), all the way up through middle school ages, right about then the pictures subtly changed. Rather than arms thrown over shoulders and good-natured ribbing in the sides, they held hands, leaning into each other subconsciously. One rather sweet photo looked to have been taken without the boy’s knowledge. They were perhaps sixteen or seventeen and sat on a couch, Sherlock had a book in his lap and Victor had tossed an arm over Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him close in order to lay a kiss upon the top of the older boy’s head. Sherlock was smiling and blushing as he relaxed into his boyfriends’ side.

The late teenage years showed a pair of boys fast becoming men, Victor was exactly how Sherlock described. Eternally covered in paint, dreads gathered upon his head, out of the way, tattered jeans and bright sneakers with a Belstaff coat ( _so that’s where Sherlock picked up the style_ ). He was an attractive boy, his jaw beginning to slowly be carved into something sharp and devilishly handsome. He had perfectly full lips that seemed to always be smiling, or smirking playfully at the camera, as though he had a secret, and his eyes where so dark they appeared black.

Sherlock was similarly beginning to fade into the man John knew, his cheekbones making an appearance past baby fat and his blue-grey eyes turning up at the corners. They made a lovely pair, a bit like the sun and the moon really. Victor with all his vibrant paint stained clothes and bright grins and Sherlock with his black clothing and pale skin.

Then nothing. Suddenly it all shifted. Victor disappeared, and so did Sherlock. There was a gap of years in the photos, then clippings from newspapers took their place. Sherlock with the damned deerstalker he hated so much, a few proper photos of him at Mycroft’s wedding ( _including him with John, the doctor noticed with some surprise. They were leaning into each other, whispering and grinning about a particularly scathing deduction Sherlock had made about their waiter. John remembered he had snorted and started laughing, and that pleased grin of Sherlock's was because he had succeeded in making John giggle. Sherlock always had that look when he made John smile, even before they were a couple._ ) and an empty spot at the end. John lingered on it, trying to figure out the purpose.

“It’s for his wedding, dear.” Mrs. Trevor piped up behind him. John started, turning back to her quickly.

“I- I’m very sorry I didn’t mean to-“

“Nonsense,” Edna shushed him, laying out the tea tray. “Come, sit. I’ve been waiting for a visit from you. Violet promise she’d be sending you over.”

“She did?” John asked hesitantly as he sat back down at the couch, politely taking the tea Mrs. Trevor gave him

“Yes. She has wonderful timing. Vincent, my husband, has gone out to leave fresh flowers for our Victor. He’d be far too weepy to get through this. Now, I assume you know about Vic?” She was smiling a bit sadly as she said this. John suddenly felt terribly awkward.

“Ah, yes, yes. Sherlock's told me a bit. He, ah… he doesn’t really- that’s too say he finds it difficult…” John cut himself off suddenly, feeling like an invader in this sacred space and an outsider discussing something he had no right too, and instead he took a sip anxiously, fidgeting.

“I imagine he would. He still blames himself, though he had nothing to do with any of it. I’ve been dreadfully worried about him all these years. He was like a second son to Vincent and I. He hardly ever answers my letters, though he does so more now that you’re in the picture. I get the feeling you’ve done wonders for him, Dr. Watson.” John flushed with a bit of pride.

“Less than he’s done for me,” John assured her. She gave him a kind smile.

“I know this must be terribly awkward for you, dear. But I’ve been asking Violet all about you since Sherly… came back to life. Lord, he gave us a horrid scare.” Mrs. Trevor blinked quickly then, before sniffing and pulling a handkerchief from her pocket dabbing at her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she gave a small chuckle, “ignore a silly old woman. It’s just sometimes I don’t think that boy knows how many people care about him.”

“No,” John said, giving her a sad smile, “no he really doesn’t.”

“So,” Mrs. Trevor said after getting a hold of herself and picking back up her teacup, “tell me, do you plan to marry the boy this century or will Violet and I have to wait until hell freezes over, hm?” John blushed and spluttered a little.

“Oh, uh, um. Yes, I mean, yes, I want to marry him. I didn’t think… or rather how do you possibly know-“

“Son, old ladies have little to do but talk.” Mrs. Trevor gave him a look over her teacup. “And a little old lady told me it might be… good for Sherlock on multiple fronts if you had our blessing.”

“And do I?” John asked. Mrs. Trevor smiled at him gently and stood, beckoning him farther into the home.

“This,” she said, opening a door, “was Vic’s room. I’d rather not think about what those boys got up to in here.” John choked on an unexpected laugh as Mrs. Trevor shot him a grin.

“We’ve kept it as it was, only tidying up a bit.” She turned on a light, illuminating the room. There was a large table against the far wall. Artists paint pallets and cleaned brushes sat in wait for inspired hands that would never return. The bed was made and the alarm clock on the bedside table was still lit up, never to wake another soul. Paintings lined the walls, most of them rather small, all sharing a theme of bright, warm colors, but there was a massive one on the wall above the bed.

It looked like an abstract flame at first glance, but then John looked again. An indescribable sadness for the lost life of a boy he never met swelled up in his breast as he looked on. His breath became choked and he shed a few tears when he realized it wasn’t, in fact, a flame, but two entwined bodies. It was beautiful, one body was pale, a blinding presence, surely meant to be the heart of the flame. It was wrapped fully around another body just like it, dark as night, all of it engulfed in an array of oranges and reds. Johns' heart ached for the loss of a soul that had added such beauty to the world, and one who clearly felt a deep love for the man John had come to cherish. He cleared his throat and quickly swiped tears from his eyes.

Mrs. Trevor was there suddenly, handing him a tissue. He cleared his throat once more, “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s um… they’re beautiful. I’m so sorry for your-“

“Don’t, darling, please don’t.” Mrs. Trevor choked out in a thick, but gentle voice. “If you get me started…” She looked away for a moment, sniffled and dried her own eyes before clearing her throat and looking up.

“That one,” she said, pointing at the painting John had noticed, “was the one that… Well, it was how he came out to us. He showed us the painting and said he was in love with Sherlock, and Sherlock was in love with him. He was trembling so badly, he looked scared to tears. As if we didn’t already know. As if we’d ever turn him away.”

 I remember looking at it and thinking “ _oh, my baby is a man now_ ”, it was beautiful. I didn’t know he could feel something so…” Mrs. Trevor stopped again, looking away for a moment before continuing.

“He painted that for the love Sherlock gave him, for the love he gave Sherlock in turn. It’s our blessing, Vincent and I. I won’t ask you to take it today, obviously, but I’d like to ship it to you. Sherlock deserves to have it, he deserves to remember how loved he is, how loved he’s always been. Love him, please, Dr. Watson, love him as much as he loved my Victor.” She said fiercely, almost begging, gripping his hand tightly.

“I do,” John promised solemnly before Mrs. Trevor wrapped him in a hug.

They stood in a dead boy’s room, connected not by life or experience, but by a profound love for the most amazing man in John's world. A man who had loved and lost so deeply it derailed the lives of thousands, a man who was brilliant and so blinded by pain he convinced himself he stood alone in a room filled with those who would die for him. A man who had inspired beauty in all who adored him.

* * *

 

They returned to London the day before New Year’s Eve, having stayed a few extra days in order to spend time with Mycroft, Greg, and Harvey, who was beyond excited to spend time with his new “Uncle Sherlock” and ( _shockingly_ ) his “Uncle John”. John was nervous when they got home, unsure how Sherlock would react to his proper gift, and Sherlock seemed just as nervous for some reason. They got in and collapsed onto the couch, curling into each other before even taking off their coats.

“Dear Lord,” Sherlock groaned, “I never knew children could be so _exhausting_.”

“You’re telling me,” John sighed, yawning, “where does he hide all that energy? Honestly. _This_ is why I got bloody fixed.” They both giggled tiredly and leaned into each other, heads resting on shoulders and hands held tightly.

“I’m so glad to be home,” Sherlock admitted quietly. John immediately knew he didn’t just mean at that moment, but home in general.

“I never knew how alone I was without you,” John responded in kind, squeezing his lovers’ hand.

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again if I’m not with you.”

“Then don’t be without me.” John murmured, kissing the back of Sherlock's hand. He could practically hear the smile spreading across Sherlock's face. The younger man kissed the crown of his head, a parallel of the picture on the Trevor’s mantel. A moment of tenderness frozen time; transferred from one love to another.

“Deal.” He said, his voice muffled by Johns' hair. They both giggled tiredly. After another moment John sat up.

“Alright,” he said, groaning as he stood, “let’s go.”

“Go?” Sherlock questioned, bordering on a whine as he sat up straight, “go _where_? We just got home.”

“To see your present.” John was suddenly unsure about how Sherlock would respond. He tugged on his lovers’ hand, pulling the taller man to his feet.

“Present?” Sherlock trailed off curiously, following John obediently, probably trying to figure out what this all had to do with the new phone he’d been gifted by his lover. But as John started tugging Sherlock towards the stairs into his old room the detectives face broke out in a grin and he whispered “ _oh!_ ” in awe.

Getting up the stairs was slow going thanks to Sherlock's casts, but finally, they both stood on the landing. Anxious and a bit proud John swung open his old bedroom door. Inside was a _proper_ lab. He’d spent months clearing out the old room and building everything Sherlock might need by hand. Everything from a half dissection table with a drain to a full-sized refrigerator was in the room. Sherlock spun in place, gapping at his new haven.

“Is… is it alright?” John asked, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. Sherlock turned back to him in awe.

“How on _earth_ did you manage to keep this secret?” he asked in bewilderment. John grinned bashfully and toed the carpet.

“Ah, I had a lot of help.” He admitted. Sherlock tugged him forward and cornered him against the wall, kissing John breathless.

“You always surprise me,” Sherlock whispered, looking at John as if he was something precious, a treasure that couldn’t be measured by any means conceived by mankind. He kissed John then, full of passion and a fire that they hadn’t explored since before Sherlock fell.

Johns entire body screamed in delight as he melted into his lover, his whole being swaying in time to the rhythm of Sherlock's breathing, every heartbeat in tune to the dance of their love. They separated, gasping and staring at each other with wide eyes. John felt euphoric, he hadn’t had an orgasm in over a year, and only then it’d just been the once. He'd broken down after, sobbing for Sherlock. His lover looked conflicted, then his eyes looked around the room once more and his face set in stone.

“John,” he said seriously, cradling Johns' face, “take me to bed.” He ordered. A shiver ran down Johns' spine as he nodded vigorously.

Getting back to their room was difficult, between Sherlock's cast and their need to have constant skin to skin contact, John wasn’t surprised to find it took nearly three times as long as it should have to reach their bed. Unceremoniously John knocked the cot he’d been sleeping on out of the way. Together they worked to strip Sherlock until the detective was on his back in the center of their mattress, fully nude save his casts. He shivered in the open air, John ran an adoring hand down his sternum Sherlock's prick gave an interested twitch. As John began to pull away, Sherlock's hand flashed out.

“John…” he started, licking his lips anxiously, “In… in the bottom of the closet, in the black trunk on my side, there’s something…. Well, something I made. Can you… rather can _we_ -“ Sherlock looked lost for a moment. John took his lover's hand between his own and kissed the knuckles.

“Let me look at it first, love.” Sherlock relaxed against the bed and nodded.

As John made his way to their closet he began stripping quickly. Once he was fully nude, he opened the closet door and kneeled by the trunk. John wasn’t sure what he had expected, but a strap-on wasn’t it. Even before Sherlock had disappeared this had never been something they used. John wasn’t sure why, it’s not as if he was opposed to it, but he and Sherlock had both always seemed content with Johns' hands and mouth. Perhaps Sherlock was just curious but... no. As his lover said, this showed signs of being a custom creation. Sherlock had spent time designing this so John would get as much physical pleasure as his partner. There was a metal rod that would run right between Johns' lower lips, and after fiddling with it for a moment, John realized there was a remote lying next to it. He took it up and switched it on and off.

His cock would rub against the rod and it seemed to have the ability to vibrate, vibrations that carried to the actual dildo. There was also a g-spot vibrator attached. Suddenly John wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing had been handcrafted to his measurements. Sherlock had clearly been thinking about this for some time, perhaps this was meant to be a gift before Moriarty stomped into their lives? He poked his head out the closet door and looked at Sherlock who was lying on the bed, worrying his lower lip. John smiled at his lover and mentally shrugged, if Sherlock was game, so was he. It took some maneuvering but eventually, the whole thing was strapped in place. John gasped as he took a step towards the closet door, remote in hand.

It was… intense. His cock rubbed deliciously against the rod between his legs and the g-spot massager teased him internally. He wondered, suddenly, if he could even make it to the bed without collapsing into a writhing mass of pleasure.

“ _Fuck_ , Sherlock” he hissed, finally stepping into the room. Sherlock sat up a little and looked to him with wide-eyed hunger.

“Fuck” Sherlock whispered in turn, then scrambled to the bedside table, extracting an unopened bottle of lube, ( _when he managed to have that delivered John didn’t know, because it certainly hadn’t been there last time John looked_ ).

“Fuck John, it’s perfect. I did know if you’d want… If you’d be interested. It was meant to be a surprise before… do the batteries still work?” Sherlock rambled as he twisted onto his back, wriggling up on their mass of pillows, pulling one down to lie under his hips. John let out a strained chuckle as he made to crawl on their bed.

“God, fuck,” he hissed again, closing his eyes to resist the urge to just writhe against the toy. “Christ, Sherlock, I don’t think we need the damn batteries, holy hell.” Sherlock grinned at him smugly, tucking his un-casted hand behind his head like the biggest douche this side of the English Channel.

“I knew you’d like it. Took forever to get it situated right.” He sounded unbearably overconfident and John rolled his eyes fondly, crawling onto his lover.

“My brilliant darling,” John groaned against his lovers’ lips. He kissed Sherlock like a dying man, hands in black curly locks, keeping the detective close. Sherlock soon began to whimper, his own hands grasping at John just as desperately. Two years of pent up loneliness, of the agony of lost love culminating in them writhing on their bed in a heap of long limbs and heated flesh.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “I- I won’t last l-long if you keep that up.” He stuttered as John began to kiss down his neck, teasing taunt nipples and pale skin now scarred by long removed hands from long-dead men.

“I know,” John groaned, biting and laving at Sherlock's neck, leaving a deep purple mark. Proof that this brilliant man was his, all his, forever. “God fuck Sherl, me either. I couldn’t while you…Only tried to once while you where gone-“

“It was too much without you,” Sherlock choked out. There was a profound sadness in his voice that John echoed. John came back up, placing his forehead against the younger man's and nodding.

“ _Everything_ is too much without you,” John admitted in a voice choked with tears. Sherlock let out a broken laugh and nodded in agreement. They kissed sweetly for a moment, just feeling that the other was there, real, warm, and so alive, until Sherlock pushed on his shoulders.

“John, please?” John groaned at the begging and nodded, taking up the lube bottle. He situated himself on his haunches between Sherlock's long legs and sat back. He couldn’t resist grinding and swirling his hips a little, teasing himself on the handmade toy.

“God, Sherlock,” He whispered, his jaw ticking as he stilled and regained control of himself. Finally, he let out a deep breath and stilled, “Ok,” his voice was a bit choked, “ok love. Tell me if it’s too much, we don’t have to rush.” John soothed his lover. Sherlock bit his lip, squirming, before stilling and nodding.

“I trust you.” He said in a low voice. John tried to ignore how he throbbed and leaked another bout of slick at the words.

His hand's mapped the feel of Sherlock's body by memory alone, his fingers seeking out and finding Sherlock's prostate with ease. The flesh remembered and his mind was in awe that Sherlock still reacted so beautifully. Oh yes, Sherlock could create spectacular masterpieces on his violin, but only John could pull _this_ song from him. Soon Sherlock was nearly in tears, whimpering in pleasure, his head thrown back against the pillow, eyes closed in ecstasy. Slowly John pulled back, Sherlock's whole body seeming to follow his fingers.

“John,” Sherlock begged, opening his stormy eyes. John situated himself and slowly pushed into his lover They gasped together as John bottomed out. John realized this angle left him the ability to fuck his lover and grind himself onto the rod, teasing his cock.

By god, his lover really _had_ thought of everything.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John croaked out as he slowly rocked into the detective. Sherlock seemed to have lost the power of speech. His body wrapped around John, awkward casts thumping against John in ways that would probably leave bruises. Bruises he’d wear proudly.

“John, John I feel you inside me,” his voice was gravel, his eyes bleary. John cursed at the image, rearing up and beginning to fuck Sherlock hard. Sherlock let out tiny “ _Ah!_ ”s of pleasure as he melted back, allowing his lover full control.

“Sherlock!” John cried in bliss, moving faster as his own orgasm approached. Sherlock whimpered, then scrambled in the sheets for a moment, whining through his nose in the way that told John the younger man was close to orgasm. Suddenly John let out a yell, collapsing over the now smirking detective, barely catching himself on his good arm as the vibrations turned on.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” he moaned as Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned in turn.

The clock slowed, they could have been undulating frantically for a millisecond or for hours, maybe even years, next thing John knew he slammed into his lover as his own body was wracked with the most powerful orgasm of his life. Sherlock let out a cry a moment later.

They both had tears in their eyes when all was said and done. They had waited so long, the hours and years separating them by more than flesh. Men with wicked hearts aiming to take away the autonomy of their bodies and the beautiful waltz they danced together. All of it fell away and they fell into each other. They smiled then, holding each other tight under the sheets as their sweat cooled and their hearts slowed, reveling in the safety and comfort of home.

The years behind them and the hell they’d both walked faded into nothing in that moment, instead, they saw not but the future. A future of love and loyalty, a future without loneliness where dead men told no tales and held no power. A future of faith and family, arguments and kisses, love and exasperation and the million things that made an unshakable partnership.

They kissed with an eternity before them, walking the sturdiest of roads, paved in a bond forged in fire and blood, a connection so deep that none could shake it, not death, nor his greatest rival for fear in humanities heart, the cruelty of man.


End file.
